


a time it was, and what a time it was

by Kate_Wisdom



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Conversations about Morality, Friendship, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash, Professional Admiration, World War 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:15:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23980681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Wisdom/pseuds/Kate_Wisdom
Summary: Conventional wisdom dictated that you never forgot your first film cameo, or the first friend you made on set.
Relationships: Alfred Burke & Bernard Horsfall
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	a time it was, and what a time it was

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: RPF, for those of you who don’t go in for that sort of thing. References to fictional Nazi roles.
> 
> This is an entirely fictional work, and I intend no disrespect for any of the gentlemen depicted in this story; indeed, I have the greatest admiration for Burke and Horsfall and their families and fine careers.

1\. **1957 : Fife**

Conventional wisdom dictated that you never forgot your first film cameo, and Bernard found that to be true, even if that first film was a CinemaScope Cold War promotional vehicle for the Royal Air Force, and that first cameo barely made the credits as unnamed RAF Wunsdorf Operations Room Radar Operator. Released in England during the Battle of Britain Week in 1957, _High Flight_ had been a commercial success but a critical flop. 

Bernard’s half a day on location with the RAF Leuchars field office in Fife, which was standing in for Wunsdorf in West Germany, would have been entirely uneventful if not for the presence of veteran stage actor Alfred Burke, who as the Wunsdorf Operations Controller had had twice as many lines and twice as much screen time as Bernard did.

With his razor-sharp cheekbones and a voice like in rocks in a whiskey glass, Alfred - - who had asked everyone to call him Alfie - - was a regular at the Birmingham Old Vic and still riding high from an acclaimed turn in the three parts of its Henry VI. His professionalism on the Leuchars set had been exemplary to both cast and crew, and had meant they managed to get through the half day of operations room filming in record time. 

Bernard was just starting out in the trade and needed all the help he could get, but someone like Alfie Burke rather outclassed the small part in this unmemorable movie.

“It’s kind of you to say,” Alfred had said, graciously, when Bernard vouchsafed this opinion to him at the end of the shoot. “But I’m merely a journeyman actor, and while this isn’t Shakespeare, work is work.”

“What, you mean this epic about brave airmen in their flying machines isn’t Shakespeare in your book?” Bernard’s father had been an RAF officer, and his favourite uncle had been a WW1 fighter pilot; as such, Bernard was very much at home in the film’s milieu.

“Only Shakespeare is ever Shakespeare,” Alfred said, with a small, patient smile, “and the RAF indeed has many brave servicemen. But, personally, I’m not much of one for the glories of war. Too little humanity, too much human cost.” 

Bernard remembered someone mentioning it between takes: Alfie had been in his early twenties in WW2, and had chosen to do his duty by working the land as a registered conscientious objector. It was strange to see how deeply that early pacifism still ran underneath the skin of this consummate actor, who had played soldiers and war kings and now was wearing the uniform of an RAF officer as if he’d been born to it. 

He looked good in that uniform, too: a man of nearly forty, lean and vigorous and elegant, almost as tall as Bernard was, and in the full flush of his powers. Bernard felt somewhat green and ungainly in comparison.

He found himself muttering something like an apology, which Alfie brushed aside with another smile, a relaxed one, this time. 

“Anyway, that’s enough about me. Let me stand you a round at the local, and you can tell me how the Nottingham Players are getting on. I haven’t seen Den Quilley in donkey’s years.”

Dennis had in fact asked Bernard to send Alfie his regards, but Bernard didn’t particularly want to talk about Dennis. Instead, he spent the too-short Fife evening trying to get Alfred to talk more about himself, all the way to closing time.

  
  


* * * 

  
  


2\. **1968 : Birmingham**

The seasons turned, and the years passed. Bernard met the lovely Jane Rodgers when she was appearing in Cymbeline at the Bristol Old Vic and he married her at the turn of the decade. The engagements followed, including the return stints on Doctor Who, all becoming less and less intermittent, and when he stopped to take a breath, he discovered that he had actually managed to build a career and a following for himself after all. 

At the end of the 1960s, he joined the Birmingham Rep under impresario John Harrison, following in the footsteps of Alfred Burke. 

At the time, Alfie had just embarked on the role of Frank Marker in _Public Eye_. He had persuaded ABC TV to relocate its second and third season to Birmingham, and when Bernard arrived in that fair city Alfie invited him on a tour of the regional studios and then squired him around town. On the occasions when Jane and the children visited from London, Alfie’s Barbara took time off from two sets of twins to show them the sights.

In retrospect, it wasn’t a surprise that he and Alfie would get on this well. They spoke the same language of Shakespeare and Chekov and Ibsen, they moved in the same circles on stage and screen, they both wanted to do John Osborne and Arnold Wesker. They aligned on a love of the opera and diverged on a mild rivalry in football clubs (Alfie supported Millwall, of all teams). 

Once Bernard had gotten over that initial embarrassing bout of star-struck excitability in Fife - - which Alfie fortunately didn’t give him too much stick about, ten years on - - they fell into the habit of checking in with each other every other week, for a quick drink when Bernard had a show and Alfie was filming, or a longer dinner at the Burkses’ when they weren’t.

Birmingham natives were notoriously blasé about celebrities in their midst, but Frank Marker was a special case. Teenagers called out to him on the street, strangers approached for a chat or an autograph, little old ladies even wanted to kiss him on the cheek. Alfie was of course as unfailingly gracious to all of them as he was to everyone who crossed his path. Still, lately, they’d taken to drinking at the pub beside the ABC studios so they could have a bit of privacy. The barkeep at the White Hart saw to it that only regulars were served there, and it also boasted a back exit so that famous patrons could make a discreet getaway.

The week Alfie’s BAFTA nod was announced, Bernard wanted to take him to Bouge’s to celebrate, but they ended up at the White Hart instead. 

Bernard brought the brimming pints across, and they toasted each other.

“Well done. Richly deserved, and it’s not just the _Daily Mail_ that thinks so! You’re well-loved, and no mistake.” 

Alfie smiled. The years had left their mark on his narrow ascetic’s face in the intervening decade since they’d last shared a screen together. There was a new furrow between his brows, for one, and it made him even look more distinguished.

“Maybe. You know, Roger and I, we just wanted to do something different with the classic noir detective trope. I never expected the public to take to the character in the way they have.”

Roger Marshall was the co-creator of _Public Eye_ , and its most prolific writer. Bernard shrugged. “It’s not as if the man on the Clapham omnibus can relate to the classic noir detective trope! Whereas Frank’s not worried about where to park his Aston Martin, he’s worried about how to pay his income tax return.”

Alfie took a genteel sip of his pint. “Speaking of which. How did your audition for Sir Ian go?”

On Tuesday, Bernard had gone to Piccadilly to audition for a role in the next Bond movie, based on the Fleming novel _On Her Majesty's Secret Service_. Alfie had helped him run his lines and work on his motivation.

“Not too bad, I think. Let’s see if they call me back.”

“It’s a good part,” Alfie said, encouragingly.

“Decent enough for a Bond sidekick. I’m not really the leading man type.” Bernard eyed Alfie’s chiselled face, with its dashing brow and matinee-idol cheekbones and the dark blond hair that, temporarily freed of Marker’s nondescript, flattened crop, sprung from his head in a still-thick coif. “Unlike you, as it happens.”

“Stuff and nonsense. Marker isn’t the James Bond type of leading man. He’s just an ordinary bloke trying to do the best he can in difficult circumstances, just like you and me.”

Bernard shrugged. “Well, maybe that’s because Bond is mostly fighting SPECTRE. It could be that if he was a real MI5 agent, taking on actual spies from the KGB, things might be different.”

“See now, that would never happen,” Alfie drawled, taking a long pull of his drink. He didn’t have to say why. They’d both of them lived through WW2. Now Britain and her allies were locked in a different, shadowy Cold War with the Soviet Union and the Eastern Bloc that was driving the global popularity of the spy fiction genre, as well as far less pleasant consequences.

“Looks like the war in Vietnam’s coming to an end, anyway,” Bernard said. Another war, though not one that involved England this time, involving staggering loss of life and destruction, and he couldn’t tell if it had really achieved anything. “All this wrangling over ideology and whatnot. Think there’ll be another actual world war over it?”

Alfie grimaced. “Good God, I hope not! You’d have thought the world would have learned its lesson since the last time.” 

“Not sure we have, though. The enemy’s changed, but most of us are still the same selfish, hot-headed folk we’ve always been.” Bernard glanced at his friend, the pacifist and conscientious objector, and amended this to, “Not all of us are as good and decent as you, you know.” 

Bernard was mostly teasing, but Alfie’s brow furrowed all the same.

“I do believe in the fundamental goodness and decency of men. And I think you do as well.”

Bernard did, at that. Common humanity, universal decency, those were traits that he did think existed alongside selfishness and aggression, the two great wars notwithstanding, and they were the things that would stand in the way of a third war. But maybe what he really believed in was in Alfie himself. 

Alfie was looking at him. Bernard had seen Marker look at clients and suspects with the same genuine, intense focus, to say nothing of co-stars and friends who had crossed Alfred Burke’s line-of-sight. This non-judgmental warmth made clients trust Marker with their secrets, and made people want to be Alfie’s friend. 

He was suddenly, ridiculously glad to count himself in that number. “Well, I believe you’re a better and more decent person than I am.”

Alfie chuckled, and reached out to pat Bernard companionably on the shoulder. “That’s where you’re wrong, my friend. Don’t sell yourself short. You’re a fine actor, and a fine man.”

For a moment, Alfie rested his hand on Bernard’s neck. His hand was warm in the perennially-cold Birmingham evening and the chilly interiors of the White Hart. Then he took it away.

Bernard said, awkwardly, “Look at us. Just two ordinary chaps, trying to do the best they can, hey?”

Alfie smiled. “At the end of the day, isn’t that what it’s all about? For Marker, and for you and me.”

  
  


* * * 

  
  


3\. **1977 : Jersey**

The final day of the shoot was a long one. London Weekend TV always hurried the filming when they were shooting in Primrose House, the charming cottage belonging to one of the executives, with its period wood stove and classic cupboards, which was the location of the Martels’ home. They said it was to maximise the good natural light on the coast bordering Saint Helier, though the cast and crew knew it was so that they could get out of Mrs Rothwell’s hair when they could. But when they were filming on the Kommandantur set, in the upper floor of the building on long lease to Channel Islands Communications, as they were today, they could afford to take their time. 

Today, shooting the final scenes of season finale, director Bill Bain was more meticulous than ever, adjusting minute details of the shot and the delivery, and putting everyone through their paces over and over, take after take. Sitting on the hard bench in the Kommandantur corridor, Richard had taken to napping between takes, still looking rather the worse for wear after his wild night out with Simon Cadell at some awful club in St. Brelade until the wee hours of this morning. Young Emily had taken out her battered copy of _Three Sisters_ to work on; she was slated to star in the RSC’s touring production of Chekov on her return to London. 

Bernard tried to use the interstitial time to focus on his character’s conflicting motivations - - Philip’s fear for Clare and Peter, coupled with his deep sense of betrayal by the both of them, the weight of the potential sentence of death for spying, hoping against hope that the Kommandant might somehow go easy on them and knowing he wouldn’t - - but as the afternoon wore on, he did feel himself rather losing steam. 

The one actor who wasn’t flagging was Alfred Burke. Though as Major Richter he was doing most of the heavy lifting in this last scene, he remained solidly focused throughout the gruelling afternoon, quietly debating the merits of the different treatments with Bill, and delivering standout performances in every take. In Alfie’s eyes, Bernard could see the depths of Richter’s rage and restraint and deep compassion. It made his own job easier; in the face of the Kommandant’s complex pity, all Bernard needed to do was to do what came naturally.

Finally, around tea-time, with the autumn light fading, the scene was finally wrapped to Bill’s satisfaction. “I think we’ve got it. Nice work, everyone,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Cast supper tonight, hey?” 

“Rather,” Richard said, grinning and stretching; Emily said, “But not too late a night for me; I’m on the first ferry back to the mainland.”

“We shan’t keep our leading lady out too late,” Richard said as they walked off the set, Bill and John and the other fellows who played the soldiers in tow.

The camera crew started to pack up their equipment and stand the set down, and Bernard wandered back down the corridor. He stuck his head into Reinicke’s and Kluge’s office, only to discover that Alfie and the two Simons had decamped to the Majors’ bigger one across the hallway. 

“You chaps still here, then?”

“Why not? It’ll be a while until we’re needed at supper. Come have a drink with us,” said Lack, waving him in. Bernard had known Simon for years, as a fellow Dr Who alum, and from working together on various BBC Radio Repertory Company properties.

Bernard wasn’t sure whose idea this was originally, but the schnapps decanter in the Majors’ office was filled with real schnapps; it was one of the perks on set. Cadell got up from his perch on the edge of Richter’s desk to pour him one. Bernard accepted the glass with thanks, as well as Philip’s usual seat.

“Long day today,” Alfie remarked, from behind Richter’s desk, where the Kommandant was accustomed to holding court. 

“For some of us, it’s been a long three months. What’s another day?” Now that Bernard thought about it, the season had certainly been a long haul for Alfie, who had been in every single one of the thirteen episodes of this season, as indeed had Bernard himself. The life of an actor did entail week-days spent away from friends and family, but filming on location in Jersey - - a nine hour drive cum ferry ride from London - - was an unusually long distance away. Bernard hadn’t seen Jane and the kids in a fortnight. You forgot yourself sometimes, when you were immersed in a particularly absorbing show, and _Enemy at the Door_ had proved to be a very absorbing show indeed. 

At the time he auditioned for the role, Bernard wasn’t sure he shared many characteristics with Philip Martel. What a difference three months made: these days Bernard wasn’t sure where he ended and where Philip began. 

Also, once he’d learned Alfie had taken the other principal role, as the decent, civilized Kommandant of the German troops on the occupied Channel Islands, Bernard was never going to turn it down. As things turned out, he’d never regretted a single moment, today’s shoot notwithstanding. It might have been a long haul, but it was one of the roles of his life, playing against some of the best actors of his generation.

“Indeed,” Alfie said. He raised his shot glass. “Nice work from you gentlemen today. It has been a pleasure serving with you.”

“The pleasure has been ours, Herr Major,” Cadell said, smirking Reinicke’s famous, crooked smirk. Young Simon was an immensely gifted actor; Bernard remembered him saying he’d tried to play Reinicke as having no redeeming features whatsoever - - instead of the usual cool, glamorous, bully-boy sort of SS officer characterisations adopted by many other actors before him, his Reinicke was a vain, fussy, humourless man who had been beaten up by a librarian in his very second outing of the season. Despite this artistic choice, or maybe because of it, Cadell’s character was mesmerising, drawing the eye in every moment that the Hauptsturmführer’s effete, elegant figure was onscreen. 

Alfie clinked his glass against Cadell’s, and they both swallowed. Bernard had first-hand knowledge of Alfie’s capacity for drink, but none of them could hold a candle to Cadell’s. Bernard had watched the lad put away entire bottles of vintage wine in one sitting and retain an entirely steady hand. Then again, drinking was a young man’s game, and neither Bernard nor Alfie were as young as they used to be.

“Rather dramatic toast, Alfie, don’t you think?” Lack remarked, lifting his own glass. “Surely you believe we’ll get picked up for a second season?”

Alfie said, “Do you know, I’m rather counting on it. Michael tells me he has grand plans, that he even wrote some of our episodes with an eye to continuing some of the plot-lines in the second season.”

 _Enemy at the Door_ was the brain-child of writer and producer Michael Chapman. Michael had worked and collaborated closely with Alfie on the last three seasons of _Public Eye_ ; like many others in their profession, he was an Alfred Burke fan. 

“What does Michael have in store for us next?” Bernard wanted to know.

Alfie drawled, “Well, for one, Philip is going to come back from Cherche Midi eventually, and this lot is going to be here waiting for him.”

“I can’t imagine six months in the clink would have treated him very well,” Bernard said, with feeling.

Alfie looked around the room. “What would your chaps have done, if it had been their call?” he asked, as if reprising his character’s former life as a professor of ethics, posing his Cambridge students this tough moral question.

“Reinicke would have had all five shot, of course,” Cadell said, immediately. “An example to the islanders, for the greater glory of the Reich. And there’d be riots, and Olive Martel would have Reinicke torn limb from limb, and then the Luftwaffe would bomb the living shit out of Guernsey; bad ending, everyone dies.”

Lack chuckled. “Freidel … let’s see. I think that, if left to his own devices, the Feldkommandant might have managed to have them released, and engineered matters such that others conveniently out of reach took the fall.”

Alfie nodded appreciatively, and then raised his eyebrows at Bernard.

“If the shoe was on the other foot?” Bernard thought about it. “Philip would have let everyone off, of course, the Hippocratic Oath would prevail. People die of cold and dysentery in prison, we can’t be having that. But if you’re asking Bernard Horsfall, then I agree with Dieter Richter. Sometimes you have to plump for the lesser evil in order to stop the greater one.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Alfie said, and the four of them drained their glasses. 

Eventually Cadell got to his feet. “Come on, gentlemen, there’s time for a quick one before supper. There’s a bottle of Hennessy reserve behind the bar at the Old Theatre Tavern with our names on it.” 

“I don’t mind if that means you’re buying,” Lack grinned, rising majestically from behind Freidel’s desk. 

Alfie called out, as the Simons took up their uniform coats, “Don’t forget to turn your kit in before you head out, it cost Wardrobe a pretty penny. Mr Cadell, I know you’re rather partial to yours, but it won’t do for you to turn up at tonight’s closing supper in full SS gear.”

Cadell flushed a little guiltily. “It’s a breathtaking piece of design, though! Albeit that mine still bunches at the back a tad? If our show gets renewed, I’m going to put in a requisition for a new one in Major Richter’s extra-tight fit.”

Bernard and Lack snickered appreciatively. Alfie did look particularly dapper in Richter’s sleek Wehrmacht uniform. Frank Marker in his utilitarian trenchcoat and badly-cut suits had never been a romantic object; held against this standard, the well-turned out Kommandant was practically a pin-up, to say nothing of the actor himself.

Alfie got up too, looking a touch discomfited. “Get on with you. Stop teasing this old man.”

Cadell grinned. “Alfie, you’ll have people staring at you when you’re ninety. Not coming with, then?” 

“Can’t keep up with either of you. Besides, cognac before supper gives me a bad head.”

“I’ll keep you company till suppertime,” Bernard offered, and they watched the Simons leave the set.

There was silence in the office for a moment as Bernard finished off his drink. Then: “Six months in prison, eh? Poor old Philip, he’ll have had hell’s own time.”

Alfie asked, “You think he’d blame Richter for it?”

“Of course he would! And he’s grateful to him, too, that’s part of the problem right there.” Bernard shrugged. “They’re at war, Richter’s the enemy, and yet, Philip can’t hate him. Richter could have had him shot, as well as Clare and Peter. Instead the Kommandant went out on a limb to save his skin.”

Alfie tilted his head, considering Bernard’s words thoughtfully. “Indeed,” he said. “We do seem to have condemned a whole nation out of hand. But not all of them were National Socialists or butchers, and the show makes clear that none of the characters are such obvious stereotypes, even our man Reinicke.”

“No, they’re not stereotypes, our Germans,” Bernard agreed. This was the genius of their show, which was at its heart about the complexity of the human experience - - about how people could respect each other, and yet make terrible choices. “They’re clearly the bad guys, but they’re not completely bad. Like many of the people in this world.”

“Well, that’s the trouble with movie Nazis who’re mindless, moustache-twirling caricatures, you know, like in _The Master Race_ and _The Great Escape_.” 

“Speaking of escapes, then you have a show like _Colditz_ , which may have made them too sympathetic.” _Colditz_ was a 1972 BBC series that Richard Heffer had starred in, alongside David McCallum; Bernard did feel that its Germans were even less enthusiastic than theirs were.

Alfie rubbed his forehead, where that furrow between his eyebrows had deepened, over the years Bernard had known him, into a gulley. “Whereas Richter is actually going to do his job, according to his lights. Even if it means having people shot, or trying not to shoot people who don’t deserve it.”

Bernard said, possibly more roughly than he intended, “Yes, going to do his job. Shame he's doing it for Hitler, though.”

Alfie - - still the pacifist, still the conscientious objector - - set his glass down and barked out a harsh laugh. “Very true, that. You think Philip gets him to see the light eventually?”

“I’d be surprised,” Bernard said. “The Major might be fonder of Philip than he lets on, but he’s a soldier. And in those days Nazi indoctrination was a pervasive thing, even though the Wehrmacht tried to tell themselves they weren’t actually Nazis or doing the Nazis’ bidding.”

“You’re probably right,” Alfie agreed. “Maybe if the series really takes off, the final season will ship poor old Richter off to the Eastern Front, or to Nuremberg.” He got to his feet. “Come on, let’s get this lot off to Wardrobe, and say goodbye to the old place for now.”

Bernard had actually taken to wearing his own clothes to the set. The suits which had been provided for Philip Martel were too light now the weather had turned colder. But it was no hardship to walk his friend down the stairs past the equipment storage room to where the German uniforms were stored. 

Alfie looked sidelong at Philip as he took off his officer’s hat and gun-belt, and then he smiled Richter’s melancholic smile. “As you say, the Major is pretty fond of Philip, although Philip may not be able to redeem him from his evil ways in the end. It’s a shame Philip doesn’t return his affections!”

Bernard snorted. “I wouldn’t be so sure. Richter is pretty hot stuff, you know.” To tease his friend, he deliberately looked him up and down: “Like all the lads here make clear.”

“Good God! Don’t you start, too,” Alfie sighed as he took off the Wehrmacht field jacket with its badges and what Cadell had described as its breathtaking design. He began to unbutton the crisp white shirt underneath, and for a moment, Bernard couldn’t look away.

Simon Cadell had said people would be staring at Alfie when he was ninety, and Bernard had to agree. Alfie’s urbane, sympathetic face had become even more compelling with age; in his tailored uniform and the polished leather jackboots, he cut as athletic and dashing a figure as he had when Bernard first met him at the RAF Leuchars twenty years ago. The saintly ginger beard he’d grown to play Richter only added to his charms. 

With some difficulty, Bernard took hold of himself. As Alfie shrugged off the starched uniform shirt and reached for his civilian clothes, he turned around to give his friend some privacy. The one brief glimpse of Alfie’s whipcord-lean frame in his undershirt absolutely didn’t help matters.

Fortunately, Alfie took his time getting into his street clothes, by which time Bernard had pulled himself together. He wasn’t entirely sure what had gotten into him. He chalked it up to the separation from Jane and the family, and the long months cooped up on the island in close proximity with his co-workers — it was enough to make anyone a little mad in the head. 

“I’m ready,” Alfie announced finally. All traces of the civilized, humane Major in that inhumane uniform had been replaced by the man, solidly and completely himself in a grey suit that fitted him every inch as closely as the uniform had. “The restaurant’s not too far away, is it? Let’s walk.”

“Lead on, McDuff.” 

Bernard rather suspected his days of following Alfie’s lead would continue for some time, even if he wasn’t entirely sure where they would eventually lead him to. He did however know he would walk that path to its end. 

They shouldered their way into their coats, and together they walked out of the building into the gathering dusk.

  
  


* * * 

  
  


4\. **Appendices & Citations**

All references in this story are to the various public domain articles linked in these notes, except for those that were wishful thinking. I have accelerated the timing of Burke’s BAFTA nod, IRL [circa 1972](https://books.google.com.sg/books?id=N2FUCwAAQBAJ&pg=PA457&lpg=PA457&dq=alfred+burke+career&source=bl&ots=F7iJuPTorU&sig=ACfU3U2_IFLVXFSMj_x0cxAN_CfcZyY1PQ&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiMueq_9MToAhWSWX0KHRJ_C_84ChDoATAEegQIChAB#v=onepage&q=alfred%20burke%20career&f=false).

[Horsfall](https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2013/jan/30/bernard-horsfall) got his start in rep, at Dundee in 1952 and the old Nottingham Playhouse in the mid-1950s (in a company that included Graham Crowden, Joan Plowright and Denis Quilley). He made his film debut in Ray Milland’s _[High Flight (1957)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/High_Flight_\(film\))_ , in which he shared about 2 minutes of footage with Burke, [20 minutes from the end](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8l4byhJVA8o).

[Burke](https://antoniobosano.com/television/alfred-burke.php) (who apparently insisted on his friends calling him Alfie) was at the Birmingham Rep between [1950 and 1953](https://sounds.bl.uk/related-content/TRANSCRIPTS/024T-C1142X000098-0001A0.pdf), winning plaudits for his _Henry VI_. He moved to London thereafter, taking film roles in some other war movies as well as a variety of TV roles, before landing the lead role in [_Public Eye_](http://www.publiceye1965-1975.uk/public-eye---the-early-history.html) in 1965. The next year, _Public Eye_ [moved to Birmingham](https://www.macearchive.org/films/atv-today-03061966-public-eye), Burke’s old stomping grounds, for its second (1966) and third season (1968). 

Horsfall arrived at the Birmingham Rep himself at the end of the 60s, and though the men both presumably maintained their respective households (the Burkses in Barnes on the border between London and Surrey, and the Horsfalls in London, though they would move to the Isle of Skye in the 80s), they would invariably have spent a great deal of their time in the same city.

Simon Cadell and Richard Heffer were roommates in London before _Enemy at the Door_ ; it was Heffer who helped Cadell secure the role of [Klaus Reinicke](https://books.google.com.sg/books?id=995YDwAAQBAJ&pg=PT199&lpg=PT199&dq=simon+cadell+bio+heffer&source=bl&ots=qCc_jIy8J6&sig=ACfU3U2H_w0WZrdp3tdHUPsQUXQMP9We-A&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwj1n4yv5NboAhUHSX0KHbXFA3MQ6AEwC3oECBAQKA#v=onepage&q=simon%20cadell%20bio%20heffer&f=false).

Writer, script-editor and producer [Michael Chapman](http://michaelchapman.org.uk/about-3/) created and script-edited [_Enemy at the Door_](www.zetaminor.com/cult/enemy/enemy_door.htm); Alfie had known him from the last three seasons of Public Eye.

The real Channel Island Communications studios were located at [ Rouge Bouillon in Saint Helier](https://catalogue.jerseyheritage.org/collection/Keywords/archive/content.subject/Rouge%20Bouillon/). In 1969, Jersey resident (and later Senator) [John Rothwell](https://www.channelonline.tv/our-history/) became the Channel Television head of news; it amused me to imagine him offering his cottage as a location for the Martels’ house. 

The LWT winter 1977 lineup[ photocall](https://www.shutterstock.com/editorial/image-editorial/london-weekend-television-winter-lineup-photocall-1977-7902792o), featuring Burke, Horsfall and Richard.

Title from “Old Friends (Bookends Theme)” by Simon & Garfunkel from their fourth studio album, Bookends (1968).

**Author's Note:**

> Most grateful to Kai for betaing.


End file.
